The Devil's Gonna Follow Me
by duruaruarua
Summary: Fraternal twin siblings Jackson and Jason Bloom survive a walker attack on their camp and find refuge in the Governor's new camp. When he hears of his plans to attack a neighboring safe haven, Jason has to choose between warning them and facing the wrath of the Governor. T for language and violence.


"Jason?"

"I'll be there in a minute, hon," he stamped out the fire to just a smolder and exhaled, watching his breath curl up into the stars. "I'll take the first shift tonight, Tom. Can I have a minute first, though?"

The older man nodded. "I'll sit here 'til you're ready."

"Thanks, man." Jason peeled away the opening of the tent and peeked in, the harsh, fluorescent lights casting strange shadows around the small space. She sat in the corner, blanket around her shoulders, staring at the floor. He knew that look-the look of a girl falling in on herself. So began the nightly routine. "How you doin', Jackson?" He sat down on the sleeping bag across from her.

Her hands were clasped under her chin. "I'm really scared."

"I know you are, sis," Jason ran a hand through his hair heavily. "But you don't have to be. We're safe here."

"I hope so."

Jason dipped into the bag sitting beside him and pulled out a small orange bottle labeled KLONOPIN. "You need these tonight?"

She nodded in defeat.

"Hey, it's okay," he said as he popped off the cap and handed her one large pill. She dry swallowed it and in the same motion, buried her head in his chest, as he'd seen her do so many times with their father when a panic attack hit. For a moment, he was surprised, but he hugged his twin back. "Don't you worry, now," he said over her shoulder. "I'm here. We'll be safe. We're okay." He pulled away and stood up. "You try and get some sleep, okay?" She nodded and wiggled between the layers of the sleeping bag, eyes already dark and heavy from the medication. He clicked off the lamp. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. 'Night." She mumbled something in reply and he walked out.

He leaned his back against a log close to the fire, handgun resting in his lap. "Thanks, Tom. I'll come get in you in two hours."

"Sure," Tom stood, dusting off his pants and shaking his dark hair. "I think we should move tomorrow, find some real shelter."

Jason felt a pang of despair at moving again. But he didn't say anything, only nodding.

"You're a pretty good boy," Tom said as an afterthought before he walked away. "You know?"

Jason laughed. "No, sir. I don't."

/

Jason always woke up when he heard Tom starting the fire for the day and he always hoped he was waking up from a nightmare, groaned, and stood up. His moving around always woke up his sister and soon, she joined him.

The morning was still grey with bursts of pale gold peeking through the clouds. The temperature rose subtly, with the promise of a sweaty, blistering day. Jackson tied up her hair. Jason rolled up his sleeves.

"Mornin', children," Tom greeted. "How'd you sleep?"

"Just fine," Jason lied.

"Great," Jackson said truthfully.

"Good, because there's lots to do today. Jackie, the laundry's pilin' up bad, and we're runnin' low on edible plants." Jackson nodded nervously and he continued. "And it's Monday, so you know what that means."

Jason crossed his arms. "Beginning of the week solo run, right?"

Tom chuckled shallowly. "Yep."

Jason ducked back into his tent and looked in his knapsack: flashlight, batteries, empty water bottle, a knife, duct tape, and the Klonopin bottle. As he taped up his knuckles and wrists, he frowned down at the bottle and its two remaining pills. He crawled out the meager tent, back slung over his elbow. "What's on the list today?"

Tom handed him a piece of notebook paper: Gasoline, bullets, water, canned food, etc., etc. He nodded. "Okay. Jackson? You need anything?"

"No," she said, lugging a gallon of water from one of the tents to wash the clothes. He kissed her forehead and she kissed his cheek. "I'll try to be back by noon," he said. "See you then."

"See you," she said, not exactly calm in tone.

/

Jason began to jog through the forest when he was too far away from the camp to see it when he looked over his shoulder. He hated leaving camp more than anything because, if he was being entirely honest, it frightened him a good deal. He held the flashlight downward and created a narrow path of light before him. A noise reached out from the disappearing grey and grabbed his ankles and slammed against his heart. It stopped him in his tracks with its guttural, groaning scream. He turned around, slowly, stiffly, to see the source of the noise several yards behind him. The fear trickled down his throat and froze his heart when he saw it.

It was missing both arms and one eye hung precariously from its socket. It lumbered closer, bringing with it the stench of rotting flesh and molded, waterlogged clothes. It seemed to notice him in the distance.

Jason caught his breath and clicked off the flashlight he didn't really need any more, stepping lightly as he quickly walked away. When he checked again, the thing was out of sight. But his heart still seized against his ribs.

He walked on the balls of his feet for the rest of his journey, breathing shallowly and not daring to make a single noise. He never felt so relieved when the sun rose high in the sky and he felt the pavement of the road beneath his nervous, light feet. He jogged gently along it, fearful for missing something if he ran too quickly. The groans of the dead followed him on the wind from all sides. When a small sign welcomed him to the small village of Donnelsville, he smiled and even allowed himself a quiet laugh with joy.

The little town was safe, normally clear of monsters, and full of well-stocked stores. Jason shrugged out of the knapsack and held it by the straps. The drug store on the corner of the first road in Donnelsville was by far his favorite, mainly because he found the keys to the front door on his first run there and he always locked it on his way out, effectively monster-proofing the whole store.

As he unlocked the door, he knew what he should have been looking for, but still he went straight to the back of the store where the pharmacy was. There was no power and he required his flashlight to scan the abandoned bottles sitting in the shelves and in the small plastic drawers. He came away with the true prize and reason for his trip: one tall, fully stocked bottle of Klonopin. The rest of the trip was business as usual, pouring trays of cereal and protein bars, two gallons of water, bandages and other first aid needs. He was browsing when he heard a muffled bang and the vibration of glass. He whipped over his shoulder. "Oh god, no."

His no-armed friend was slamming his head against the glass door. Each slam had a longer pause and a louder impact and he knew that the racket would draw out more in a heartbeat. He looked wildly around the store, looking for a shovel or a baseball bat-something. But there was nothing. He took the knife from his bag with slightly shaking hands, closed it, and hoisted it on his back again. In the time it took to do this, two more had swarmed the opening. If he waited any longer, there would be more soon. He strode toward the door, eyes wide and heart pounding as he swung the door open and stabbed the armless monster between the eyes. It fell like a fly. "Shit!"

The problem with this was when it dropped, it took the knife with it.

Jason tried to duck down for it, but the newer monsters mimicked his move. Over its shoulder, he saw the hilly road dotted with slow-moving figures-more friends. He looked down at his taped hands and realized he'd have to do something that he never thought he'd have to do.

His junior year of high school, he'd been kicked off his wrestling team for mouthing off to his coach and for throwing way too many illegal moves on the mat. He switched to the recreation center's team and when his new coach noticed his knack for punching, he taught him a more appropriate move-the spinning back fist.

He stuck out his arm and pivoted on his heel, sending the back of his fist sailing into the temple of one of the monsters, crushing its soft, vulnerably rotted skull, and toppling over the other one. He stomped his foot down on both of their heads for good measure and reveled in the cessation of the groans.

The dots on the horizon, however, were growing into blobs. He knelt down, pressing down on the thing's forehead with his foot for leverage to tear the knife away, spewing grey matter and blood all around. His breathing was fast and heavy as he reached for the key in his bag, locking the door behind him. He squinted to see that the monsters were swarming the road now. No use going back that way. He kept the knife in his hand as he walked through the remainder of the village.

The whole area was a ghost of what it once was. The little houses that dotted the side of the road had overgrown grass and wilted plants in their gardens. Ominous red patches colored in the grass here and there. Every shop was marked with a closed sign, its owners long gone. He saw a rusty, reddish swingset in the backyard of one of the houses, and it made his stomach turn.

The ghost of the dead village followed him as he cut through the brush behind one of the houses and back through the forest itself. It followed him while his heart pounded in his chest faster than his feet pounded the ground. It followed him while he stopped and guiltily removed the orange bottle from his bag and gulped a pill down his dry throat. It followed him while he ran, on the balls of his feet, all the way back to camp. It followed him when he had the fire in his sights at last and it put on a mask of relief.

Jason slowed to a walk and closed his fists around the straps of his bag. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing. No one else was allowed to know his fear. He focused on more pleasant things-home. Temperatures not as awful as the ones that day. A real bed. Hot food. In the background of these thoughts was the realization that he'd had his first panic attack. He pushed away his dread and smiled as he approached the center of the camp. "I'm home," he called quietly. There was no movement and no sound. "Tom?" he ventured cautiously. "Jackson?" Nothing. He slowly opened his tent and peered inside. His sister was nowhere to be found. "God-!" he caught his breath, careful to not make any noise. He checked the rest of the tents, all of them empty of people.

He stood before the last tent, literally shaking in his boots, trying to decided what to do when he heard the telltale yowling noise of doom. He crouched down next to the tent and crawled around to the back, able to see a mess of bodies behind the ring of tents and two lumbering monsters walking among them. He turned over his shoulder, covering his mouth and silencing the involuntary noise of distress that came from it. His eyes stung and threatened tears. But he'd be damned if he'd cry in front of those things. He stood up, flipping the knife downward in his hand. "Hey, beautiful," he said hoarsely, just loud enough for them to hear. They looked up at him. "And mornin' to you too, handsome."

The pair perked up at the noise and the standing food source. They stumbled over to him and Jason plunged his knife into one's eye socket and elbowed the other one in the face. It fell to the ground and he pinned it down with his knee on its chest and suddenly, every ounce of fear and anger he'd felt in his life burned in his fists. Over and over again he gave left and right hooks to the sides of its face before it gave a hissing scream of protest and he brought the bottom of his fist down on the center of its forehead, which imploded and it fell gloriously silent.

"Jason…!"

The whisper was tight with fear and uncertainty, quiet and and gossamer on the muggy air. However quiet it was, though, he heard it clearly and recognized it instantly. "Jackson!" He tore the knife from the monster's head and stood up, looking around wildly until she slammed into his chest and locked her arms around his neck, trembling. He felt hot tears on his shoulder as he hyperventilated under her embrace. "Oh, my god," they said in unison.

"I wasn't here, I'm so sorry Jackson, oh my god," Jason babbled, dizzy and out of sorts with relief. He hovered his bloodied hands over her back, careful not to touch her. He stopped his chatter and sighed. "Where were you?" he said, pulling away. "How did you get away?"

"I hid," she said tearfully. "In the brush." Her eyes fell on his hands, open at his sides. "I'm so glad you're here," she breathed. "I tho-," She cut herself off with a gasp and slapped a hand over her mouth. Jason followed her gaze and tense up, putting an arm across her and pushing back.

Connor, one of his best friends, rose up from the mess of bodies. He was pale and moved strangely. He opened his mouth and let out a deep, pulsating growl, holding out his arms. This woke the others and the whole of them stood.

Jason pushed her back. "Run," he said. "Run!" He grabbed her wrist and they ran as fast as they could, stumbling over rocks and roots and snapping twigs left and right. Through his mixture of relief and fear, he could see the tops of something white among the lower trees and rows of brush. A clearing?

They ran toward it blindly.

/

_Thanks for reading! Please review and tell me what you think._

_I obviously don't own the Walking Dead. Robert Kirkman is the man in charge in _that _department._


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